But in what regard? Was he actually ensconced somehow in the alien ship? And if that were the case, how in heaven’s name had he managed to get there?
Then there was the most important question of all, the one that clenched the muscles in the captain’s stomach and made the sweat stand out in beads on his forehead: What the devil was he supposed to do now?
I know what I am not supposed to do, he decided, and that is to allow this battle to take place. If Gilaad is telling me anything, it is that.
“Mister Paxton,” he said, “get me Captain Sesballa.”
“Actually,” said the com officer, “Captain Sesballa is trying to contact you, sir.”
“On screen,” said Picard.
A moment later, Sesballa’s silver visage showed up on the forward viewer, the muscles in his face taut with tension. And he wasn’t alone. The viewscreen was split into six equal sections, each one displaying the image of a different captain.
“If anyone knows what that vessel is doing,” said Sesballa, obviously speaking to the lot of them simultaneously, “I would like to know as well.”
“I believe my first officer is on that vessel,” said Picard, before anyone else could respond, “and unless I miss my guess, he is telling us not to fire.”
“The hell we won’t,” growled Shastakovich, his face florid with determination. “That ship isn’t going to get a meter closer without my weapons officer putting a hole in it.”
“Frankly,” said Minshaya, “I am surprised at your naïveté, Picard. How can you be certain this is not a trick?”
“These aliens have gone head-to-head with us at every turn,” said Picard, “and we have yet to win a single skirmish. Why would they feel compelled to resort to subterfuge?”
“Who knows?” said Veracruz, his mustache quirking on one side. “Who knows why they do anything?”
“Why are we even discussing this?” asked Nguyen. “It’s an enemy ship, no matter what’s been thrown out its cargo hatch. It needs to be destroyed.”
Picard frowned. “Even if it hurts our chances of beating back the invaders? Or perhaps not having to fight them at all?”
“Why would you think that?” asked Sesballa.
“The aliens could not have coerced that information from my exec,” said Picard. “He had to have displayed it of his own free will. And I ask you…why would he do that if he wanted us to destroy the ship it came from?”
That gave the others pause. Even Shastakovich. But they still weren’t certain as to the right course of action—and there was too much hanging in the balance to take the wrong course.
“Well?” said Picard.
It seemed to Ben Zoma that he was floating, twisting out in space like a piece of debris from a ruined starship—or a roll of pressed grain that had been marked with fruit juice, a smelly, makeshift flag of truce.
“Gilaad?” said a voice from far away.
Strange that he could hear out here, in the vacuum of space. Or smell, for that matter. Didn’t one ordinarily need air for that?
“Gilaad?” the voice said again.
He opened his eyes and saw that someone was looking down at him. His vision was hazy, so he couldn’t tell who it was. Then he began to focus and get a clearer picture.
“Gilaad?” the voice said a third time. And at last, Ben Zoma recognized its source.
It was Picard. And they were in sickbay, the first officer stretched out on one of Greyhorse’s biobeds while his friend hovered over him.
What’s more, Paris was lying one bed over. They had made it, both of them. They hadn’t died on that D’prayl scout ship.
“We know a few things about the aliens’ technology now,” Picard explained, “so we were able to disable your shield emitters and beam you off. How do you feel?”
That’s when it all came rushing back to Ben Zoma—what he had seen and heard on the D’prayl ship. Especially what he had learned about Lieutenant Ulelo….
“Jean-Luc,” he croaked.
“Yes,” said his friend, leaning a little closer. “I am here, Gilaad.”
“Jean-Luc,” he said again, knowing how strange this would sound, “we’ve got to turn Ulelo over to the aliens.”
Picard looked at him. “What?”
“Lieutenant Ulelo,” said Ben Zoma, “he’s one of them. That’s why they’re here—to get him back.”
“But Ulelo is human,” Picard protested.
“Not according to the D’prayl,” said Ben Zoma.
He saw his friend stare at him, trying to digest what he had said. It wasn’t going down easily. But then, the first officer hadn’t expected it to.
“I’m not delirious,” Ben Zoma said. “And I haven’t been brainwashed by the invaders.”
Picard’s brow furrowed. “So you say.”
“It’s the truth, Jean-Luc.”
“But,” said Picard, “how do you know that? How can you be certain?”
Ben Zoma had anticipated the question. Indeed, he had asked it himself, back on Otholannin’s vessel. And he had received proof of the D’prayl’s contention.
Proof he shared now with Picard.
Chapter Nineteen
BEN ZOMA HAD ADVISED that the D’prayl’s patience wouldn’t last long. So when Picard heard from Greyhorse, he left the bridge and the alien vessels amassed against him, and hurried down to sickbay.
The doctor met him at the door. “Have you found something?” the captain asked.
“Take a look,” said Greyhorse, showing him a padd with a still image on its tiny screen—a picture of a white line on a flesh-colored field.
Picard studied it. “What is it?”
“A scar,” said Greyhorse, “less than a millimeter in length—so small that I would never have found it unless I was looking for it. And it appears it’s surgical in origin.”
“Which,” said the captain, “would seem to support the story Commander Ben Zoma brought back with him.”
“It would,” Greyhorse agreed.
Ulelo’s internal organs had appeared human on scans. Likewise, his biochemistry. But the aliens hadn’t bothered to hide the scars, tiny as they were.
Picard nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Greyhorse.
“Take the next step,” said the captain, “and see what happens.”
Ulelo was sitting upright on a biobed. He looked tired, despite the sedatives that had been administered.
“Lieutenant,” said Picard.
Ulelo regarded him with what seemed like trepidation. But then, he had been through a great deal of pain, and he had no reason to believe it was over.
“Captain,” he said, inviting Picard to add yet another wrinkle to his uncertainty.
Picard frowned. “This is difficult to explain, so I hope you will listen closely.”
Ulelo seemed to understand what was being asked of him. “All right.”
Here we go, Picard thought. “As you know, we have run some medical tests on you. Through those tests, we have determined with a high degree of confidence that—despite appearances to the contrary—you are not one of us.”
The patient’s eyes screwed up as if he were in pain. “What do you mean not one of you?”
“You are not even human,” said the captain, as gently as possible. “You are a member of a species that calls itself D’prayl.”
Ulelo shook his head from side to side. “No…”
“It is true,” Picard insisted. “And your people have given us what they say is proof—in the form of a code word, which is supposed to enable you to remember who you are.”
“No!” the patient snapped, scrambling backward on his bed like a crab. “I don’t want to remember anything. I’m Dikembe Ulelo. I’m a com officer.”
“Then in all likelihood, their code word will not affect you,” the captain said. “And it will not matter if you are exposed to it.”
Ulelo’s gaze was uncertain, fearful. “It won’t hurt me?”
“No,�
�� said Picard. “I do not believe so.”
The com officer still seemed uncertain. “I want to talk to Emily Bender,” he said.
It was too reasonable a request to deny. The captain nodded. “All right, if that is what you want. I will ask her to join us.”
Bender entered sickbay a little tentatively, joining Captain Picard. But then, she wasn’t entirely comfortable with what he was asking her to do.
Picard didn’t know for certain that the word he uttered would break down Ulelo’s mental block. He had made that clear. He was depending on the sincerity of the aliens—the same people who had been crippling Starfleet ships.
Doctor Greyhorse had found some scars behind Ulelo’s ears. But they didn’t prove anything, really—only that the aliens had operated on Ulelo, back when they were preparing him for his mission.
For all Bender knew, the aliens’ word would destroy what was left of her friend’s mind—and keep Starfleet from knowing what the invaders were really after. Or maybe it would trigger some other response, which would render Ulelo even more dangerous to his colleagues.
But there was also that other possibility, the one in which the captain seemed to believe—that if Ulelo was an alien, they would be doing him a disservice by not saying the word.
What should I do? Bender asked herself as she approached her friend, Captain Picard, and Doctor Greyhorse. What would I want Ulelo to do if it were me sitting on that biobed?
“Emily Bender,” said her friend as she stopped in front of him.
She smiled. “It’s me, all right. How are you?”
Ulelo glanced at Picard. “A little disturbed by what the captain has told me.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bender said. “I’d be disturbed too.”
Her friend looked into her eyes, seeking wisdom there. “What should I do?”
She smiled. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
Ulelo looked disappointed. But the captain’s expression didn’t change. Possibily, he knew she wasn’t done speaking.
“But,” said Bender, “I can tell you what I would do, if I’d been having the problems you’ve been having. I’d take a chance that the aliens are telling the truth.”
Her friend winced. “But what if they’re right? What if I really am one of them?”
That’s what he was afraid of! Not the possibility that the aliens were going to trash his mind, or turn him into a weapon of some kind, but the chance that he would be exposed as an alien himself.
And the more Bender thought about it, the more she understood. To lose one’s identity was to die, in a sense. And like anyone else, Ulelo didn’t want to die.
“Then you need this,” she said, “or you’ll never be free.”
Her friend looked at her for a moment, weighing what she had said. Then he turned to Picard and said, in a voice quivering with trepidation, “All right.”
Picard had been instructed by Ben Zoma to administer the aural trigger in a controlled setting. The aliens had recommended low light, quiet, and that no one else be present except Ulelo and the person uttering the word.
And if the word did what Bender had feared, and attacked Ulelo’s mind somehow? There would be nothing Picard could do about it. But as he had told Ulelo, he didn’t believe the procedure would place him in any danger.
“Ready?” he asked Ulelo.
The fellow nodded. “I think so.”
Picard spoke the word slowly and carefully, exactly as Ben Zoma had trained him to say it. Then he waited.
The com officer blinked. Hard. Obviously, the D’prayl word had had an effect on him. But was it the effect that Ben Zoma had predicted?
“Are you all right?” the captain asked.
Ulelo didn’t answer. He just stared at Picard, his head tilted slightly to the side.
“Lieutenant?” said the captain.
Ulelo frowned at him. “I’m not a lieutenant. I’m a D’prayl. And I want to go home.”
It was eerie to hear him say such a thing. And yet, it was the result Picard had both expected and hoped for. Suddenly, Ulelo wasn’t out of his mind—he was just an alien in an unfamiliar place. And just as suddenly, the captain had the key he needed to save both sides a great deal of bloodshed.
“I will do everything in my power,” he said, “to help you accomplish that.”
“Captain?” It was Wu’s voice, coming through the intercom.
It had to be an urgent matter if she was interrupting him. He had left strict orders to the contrary.
Looking up at the grid embedded in the ceiling, he said, “Yes, Commander?”
“Sir,” said his second officer, “some of the D’prayl vessels are repositioning themselves. It appears that they’re moving into an attack formation.”
Damn, thought Picard.
“Your orders?” asked Wu.
“Stand by,” said the captain. “I am on my way.”
En route to the turbolift, he contacted sickbay, Pug Joseph, and the transporter room—in that order. If he and his people moved quickly, they might yet make it in time.
Chapter Twenty
AS SOON AS PICARD EMERGED onto his bridge, he was greeted with the angry visage of Captain Sesballa.
“Where have you been?” the Rigelian demanded. “No, never mind that. Just fall into line with the others. The aliens will open fire at any moment.”
“But we agreed to hold our fire until we gave my first officer a chance.”
“Obviously,” said Sesballa, “that was a miscalculation on our part. Now back off and join the line.”
Idun turned to Picard, awaiting his orders. But he didn’t give her any. He just stood there, stubbornly refusing to comply with his colleague’s instructions.
“Did you hear me?” asked Sesballa, his voice ringing throughout the bridge.
Picard had heard only too well. But he had just made an offering. He couldn’t respond unless he was certain it wouldn’t be accepted.
Sesballa turned to his communications officer to make sure the link to the Stargazer hadn’t been broken. When he turned to face the captain again, his ruby eyes were ablaze.
“Damn you,” Sesballa spat, “do as I say—or I will see you stripped of your command!”
You will have to join the queue, Picard thought.
Just then, he saw what he had been hoping for. A wave of D’prayl vessels came about as one, and headed back the way they had come. Then a second wave did the same. And a blessed moment later, the rest of them followed.
One of those vessels would be Otholannin’s, with its ever-so-precious cargo. Picard breathed a sigh of relief.
“Transporter Room One to Captain Picard,” came a voice over the intercom. “Refsland here, sir. We’ve got six arrivals.”
Picard nodded. It was exactly what he had hoped to hear.
Normally, the doors to the transporter room slid aside as Picard approached them, triggered by a sensor farther down the corridor. But this time, he was moving so quickly that he had to stop and wait for them to open.
When they did, he was rewarded with a happy sight: six figures on a transporter platform. McAteer was there, looking none the worse for wear. So were Horombo, Chen, Garner, and Ramirez.
And in their midst stood a sixth figure—a tall, darkly complected man with a high forehead and dark, probing eyes, dressed in a standard Starfleet uniform. A man who had been one of them once, and was one of them again.
Dikembe Ulelo.
He looked thinner than his counterpart, perhaps because he had been limited to an alien diet. And there was a spark in his eyes that Picard didn’t remember in the other Ulelo.
But beyond that, the two Ulelos looked exactly the same.
Picard approached the man, ignoring his companions for the moment. “Mister Ulelo?” he ventured.
The fellow nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Picard smiled. “Welcome aboard.”
Ulelo smiled back, though he looked a bit out of practice. “Thank you, sir. It’s good to be aboar
d.”
Chapter Twenty-one
AS BENDER ENTERED SICKBAY, she couldn’t mistake the hulking figure bent over a workstation, his long, strong fingers tapping away at a built-in keypad.
“Doctor Greyhorse?” she said.
The doctor looked up from his work. “Ah, Lieutenant Bender. I take it you’ve come to see Ulelo.”
“Can I speak with him?”
Greyhorse shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“Thanks,” said Bender. Then she drew a deep breath and went inside.
It was Ulelo, all right. The one with whom she had attended the Academy, and whose company she had loved so much. The one she had believed she rediscovered there on the Stargazer.
His eyes opened wide as he took in the sight of her. “Emily?” he said. And a smile spread across his face.
She couldn’t help smiling back at him. “It’s me, all right.”
“I didn’t know you were on this ship.”
“I got here a few months ago.” She glanced at his bioreadouts, which looked normal enough. “How are you feeling?”
“Not bad,” he said, “considering.” His smile faded and his eyes turned hard, as if he were looking at something the science officer couldn’t see. “It was tough, not knowing if I’d ever see anyone I knew again, or if I’d have to live the rest of my life that way—among the D’prayl, in a single room, with guards watching me all the time.” Then he brightened again. “But that’s all over, isn’t it? I’m home now.”
She nodded. “You’re home.” And she put her arms around him, letting him know that his ordeal was over.
But it was funny. As happy as she was to see Ulelo—the real Ulelo, who had been so miraculously restored to them—it wasn’t the same as seeing the Ulelo she had gotten to know over the last several weeks.
He had been an alien, an impostor. He had pursued an agenda that he had kept hidden from her and everyone else. But even when she considered all that, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had lost a friend.
Kastiigan pushed his food around his plate. He didn’t feel much like eating.
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